


dopamine

by euphoriaspill



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Cocaine, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Musicians, Noise Kink, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphoriaspill/pseuds/euphoriaspill
Summary: Freddie is a wreck, there’s no denying it, but he doesn’t have the worst ideas about settling creative differences.





	dopamine

**Author's Note:**

> yes I’ve already purchased my ticket to hell

You should’ve seen it coming when he showed up at your bedroom the night after your blowup in the studio, dangerously wired from too much coke and ready to pick up the fight where it left off. He doesn’t let things go so easily, and soon enough the two of you are back at it again, disco vs. rock-and-roll a cover for the real rift in this band— Freddie Mercury’s massive ego vs. everyone else’s right to exist outside of its shadow. 

“Why don’t we just settle this the way we should’ve, like blokes?” you end up snapping, and give him the hard, cathartic shove you were held back from earlier today, without anyone around to intervene. God, you want to slap him sometimes, slap the smug self-satisfaction right out of him and see what’s left.  “Come on, Freddie,” you breathe again, the taunt in your voice palpable, “let’s see how good a boxer you really are.”

He doesn’t take the swing, though, instead he fumbles with the zipper of your trousers and drops to his knees, like this is a completely normal thing for a man to do to another man. And after all these years of being dragged along after his blow-fueled insanity, you’ve finally been shocked silent. “Darling—“ exasperation bleeds right through the word— “the sexual tension is getting a little old here, isn’t it? Is _this_ what you want?” 

(You _knew_ about this, of course, read the tabloids’ lurid speculation, wondered why he and Mary split with such rapidity, have seen him in men’s laps before, prancing around in leather and glitter, but part of you always questioned how genuine it all was— if it wasn’t part of the image he wanted to project. Where exactly the line was between _Freddie_ _Mercury_ , frontman of Queen with a brand to maintain, and Freddie himself.) 

You groan deep in the back of your throat as he palms your cock through your pants, his hand hot and dry like he can shoot fire out of it; you’re so hard it hurts. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it before,” he continues. “Just— bloody well making me shut up for a change.” 

It’s always a challenge with him, endless shit tests, and maybe he wants you to shove him aside, so he can laugh at your prudishness later with his fuck of the week— but you don’t so much feel like giving him the satisfaction of backing down, all of a sudden. You shove your trousers past your hips, let them settle around your knees; his hot, shallow breaths are perilously close to your shaft. “How often have you done this before?”

The gleam coming off his eyes could almost blind you, his pupils big and dark like black holes, eclipsing the iris. “Often enough.” 

He pulls your pants down to your knees and still wastes time, swirling his tongue on the tip of your cock, not even wrapping his lips around the head, and you tolerate this for the better part of a minute before you tangle a hand in his short hair. “Patience is a virtue—“ he tries to say in his slow, condescending way, until you give it a hard yank.

“Don’t fuck with me, Freddie.” 

It’s as good as an order, though your voice is more desperate than you would’ve preferred, and he smiles as he hears a crack you haven’t had since you were fourteen. “All right, then.” He settles back down on his haunches and then all you can register is the scrape of his teeth as he takes you in— you snap your hips forward, fucking his mouth in earnest, so deep you have no idea how he hasn’t choked on it yet. Warmth rapidly curls in the pit of your stomach, like scratching an itch you never knew you had— your cock is already starting to drip onto his tongue— the whole world reduced down to one pinpoint of sound and color as he sucks and sucks and sucks without growing tired of it, like a machine—

You shove your fist into your mouth and bite down on noises you didn’t realize you could make, though nothing can stifle the wet slide of Freddie’s lips on your cock, the obscene pop as he lets it fall. He pulls the fist out, laughs a low, dirty laugh as he holds it up and examines the bitemarks on the thin skin. “You can be as loud as the hell you want.” His voice drops an octave, and you lose the delusion that you were ever in control here. “I like to hear it, when I’m pleasuring someone.” 

“Fuck,” you say without the strength or inclination to push back against him, arching into the wet heat as he sucks with renewed energy, your balls tight and your entire body coiled like a spring about to go off— “fuck, Freddie, please, I’m going to—“

One hand scrabbles at the bedsheets, seeking purchase— the other moves of its own accord to your aching nipples, straining and stiff against the fabric of your shirt, rolls them between two fingers to give them some desperate relief. “Mhmm,” Freddie says, as ridiculously arrogant as ever while you rock beneath him, but when he slips his tongue under your foreskin, nothing can stop you from throwing your head back and crying out as you come. 

He holds your thighs steady through the shuddering, swallows every drop you spill down his throat and then licks off your tip, sending another aftershock coursing through you— even with his hair mussed and his mouth slick with your come, he still manages to look imperious when he pulls away, proud and remote. “We could use more of this in the band,” he says thoughtfully, wiping himself off with the back of his hand, “might settle our creative differences better, you know?” 

Jesus, he’s a wreck. It’s probably just the blow talking. But you don’t know if you’re much different, when he kisses you and you taste yourself on him, and you reach down his trousers anyway. 


End file.
